A Beast in Every Man
by noctuua
Summary: Hannibal/Will. A brief glimpse at Will's back dimples, two soft indents that just peek over the band of his shorts, leaves Hannibal reeling, the only thought in his head how utterly desperate he is to sink his teeth into those marks and make their permanence his own. Warning for implied/referenced underage/ephebophilia. Lolita AU.


_A/N: This work is greatly inspired by Vladimir Nabokov's, Lolita, and also by __whiskeyandspite's, "__My Sin My Soul" on AO3 (one of my favorites and I can't ever hope to write as well as she does). Warning for underage/ephebophilia. Enjoy and thanks for reading!_

_Edit: This is actually a piece I posted on AO3 a while ago and forgot to upload here. Originally it was going to be a chaptered fic, but I didn't have time and I ran out of inspiration for it. My apologies._

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Saturday morning, bright and early, finds a reluctant Hannibal Lecter standing on the porch of one Ms. Romilda Graham. He shuffles his feet, leather gleaming in the sun, and knocks hesitantly—tries to think of an excuse to get him away from this house and back on the train as soon as possible.

He'd been called by the local hospital just a few days ago in need of at trauma surgeon and unsure of where to turn. They'd had an opening and some time for him to visit and inspect; however, on such short notice, Hannibal was forced to call a colleague of his to help him out.

The house that stands before him is unremarkable and dull. A small two story, possibly three bedrooms, and he'd be lucky if there were two full bathrooms. The shingles are painted a steadily fading blue and a half dead tree stands crookedly in the front yard.

Hannibal is greeted by Romilda Graham herself, a set of lifeless blue eyes surrounded by sallow skin and an unfashionable hairdo.

The interior of the house is just as lifeless, if not more. Nothing the woman could do would cure the drabness that seemed to seep from every corner of every room.

He's led to the second floor, up a nasty set of carpeted stairs, the color similar to that of concrete.

Romilda drones on about her home, how her husband had built it 17 years ago, months before their wedding day. Perhaps if Hannibal were a better man, he might actually care. His position as an emergency room doctor however, allows him the illusion of listening and he nods along, hums in acquiescence, and attempts to get through the mind numbing tour without being roped into any sort of agreement.

Sauntering ahead of him, Romilda swings her hips in an overtly suggestive manner and Hannibal sighs, thinks of some illness in the family that will take him from the house.

As they return to the ground floor, the woman's steps are interrupted by a jingling coming from the sitting room, one she'd failed to show him as of yet, and she turns on her heel, one patent leather shoe on the wood nod the other still on the step above.

"Oh," she sighs in a woeful tone, and she tilts her chin towards him in a way Hannibal finds terribly unflattering. "I suppose I failed to mention that I have a son. You'll have to meet the little philistine eventually so we might as well get this over with. Be mindful; he's got a terrible attitude, everything is an argument with him—the whole world is against him."

She turns back around and descends to the floor, the click of her heels against the dark mahogany is jarring.

They enter a room so bright that Hannibal squints, his vision clouded by light and he pauses, color slowly seeping back.

Two long legs creep into his line of sight, one extended, knobby knee just slightly bent, the other almost completely folded, tented and swaying, a steady swinging in a non-existent breeze. Hazel eyes drift up a lean torso, the faded white t-shirt riding up to reveal smooth skin, a barely there trail of downy hair disappearing beneath the band of the boy's shorts. He's got one gangly arm thrown up to scratch at a dirty mutt lying curved around his head, the other hung over his face, shading his eyes from the same rays streaming through the window that had blinded Hannibal only moments ago.

His perusal is interrupted by the raspy clearing of a throat and he realizes how long he's been staring, realizes how decidedly inappropriate that would seem and snaps his eyes up to Ms. Graham only to find that her gaze is not directed at him, but rather at the boy sprawled across the carpet.

"William," and oh, what a beautiful name for such a beautiful boy, "We have a guest. It would be polite to get up off that dirty rug and shake Dr. Lecter's hand—properly introduce yourself. And what have I told you about bringing that filthy thing in the house?"

William lifts his arm enough to peek up at the two adults standing over him before he covers it once again, rolling onto his stomach to turn his back to them, other arm still stretched to paw at the dog.

Oh, the insolence, Hannibal thinks, and his mouth waters at how it might feel to throw the boy over his lap, bring his smooth palm down against the backs of his tender thighs, have him beg until his wails turns to sobs and oh, would Dr. Lecter please, please kiss it better?

The man's vision swims and he must look ill because before he knows it, the Graham woman is leaving to get him a glass of water and he's left to stare at the boy's lightly toned calves, the supple curve of his bottom. A brief glimpse at Will's back dimples, two soft indents that just peek over the band of his shorts, leaves Hannibal reeling, the only thought in his head how _utterly desperate_ he is to sink his teeth into those marks and make their permanence his own.

Before Romilda—dear, dear Milda, sweet Milly, Hannibal really can't be bothered to care—can even nudge the glass into the good doctor's hands, he's accepting her offer, a great smile locked in place. Oh, how thrilled he would be if she would allow him to occupy her spare bedroom, if only for the summer.

And what a fantastic summer it would be, the woman all but croons.

He doesn't miss the way she straightens her back, pushes her chest forward in what some might find to be a very alluring manner. Hannibal himself finds it tasteless. Bringing one hand up between their bodies, he presents his hand to be shaken, for a deal to be made. Romilda's hand is at once clammy and doughy, dry and bony, and Hannibal has to fight to hide his disgust. If a corner of his lip curls just a bit in a moment of utter revulsion, the wretched woman does not notice, but hazel eyes meet electric blue and the man works not to stumble back at the depth and perception wrought through William's gaze. A look of understanding passes between them, the prey accepting its predator as its one and only, and then it is over. William blinks and turns his head away from them once more.

Yes, Hannibal thinks. A fantastic summer indeed.


End file.
